


Category Ten: Bones/Xander

by beetle



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Star Trek
Genre: F/M, M/M, Post-Chosen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:21:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No real summary, just the rules of the meme I followed to create this,  and a few other fics.</p>
<p>The Rules: <br/>1. Pick a character, pairing, or fandom you like.<br/>2. Turn on your music player and put it on random/shuffle.<br/>3. Write a drabble/ficlet related to each song that plays. You only have the time frame of the song to finish the drabble; you start when the song starts, and stop when it's over. No lingering afterwards!<br/>Do ten of these, then post them.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Fandom: ST:XI/BtVS crossover (future-fic)<br/>Character(s): McCoy/Xander, McCoy/Jocelyn<br/>Rating: NC-17</p>
            </blockquote>





	Category Ten: Bones/Xander

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I just dabble in worlds that aren't my own.  
> Notes/Warnings: None that I can think of.

**Nirvana: Polly**

  
  
“. . . finally, are you still in any pain whatsoever, or discomfort?”  
  
The patient blinks at McCoy slowly, as if he's not quite understanding him. He's done that in response to every question since he was brought into the ER with a high fever, weak and raving. His gaze is kinda creepy. One eye is brown, and the other's so pale, it's nearly white.  
  
It's only professionalism that keeps McCoy grim-faced and dispassionate under such a gaze.  
  
“No,” the patient says hoarsely, like a man who ain't much used to chit-chat, and resents having to do it. Then those disquieting eyes are on the ceiling, the floor, on his knees, then his own hands, large, rough, covered in scars, but no longer in dirt. “Guess'm . . . fine, now. Thanks, Doc.”  
  
He's avoiding McCoy's gaze, and he looks far too young to be indigent and homeless.  
  
At least . . . he looks that way when McCoy can't see his spooky eyes.  
  
“Well. Don't mention it,” he tells the patient. He's already halfway to the door, latex gloves arcing in a beautiful free-throw into the reclamator. That's the end of that, and his mind's already on the next patient.  
  
  


**Travis: Writing To Reach You**

  
  
That evening, when he gets home, his foolish hopes that whatever it is-- _whatever it is_ \--would be gone, or at least have eased some in his absence, is dashed.  
  
Jocelyn's still angry at him, like she's been for decades, it seems. Decades since the tall, awkward girl he lost his heart to—the Wonderwall of love and fun and sweetness--turned into a stranger he can never please, and who, if he's honest, he still loves with all his heart, but can't bear to be around, sometimes.  
  
Joanna's only nine, but she's smarter than he and Jocelyn put together. She'd eaten before either of them had gotten home and holed up in her room. Shouldn't be this way, but it is. It is. And not for the first time, McCoy simply can't take anymore. At least not tonight.  
  
In his heart of hearts, he knows Jocelyn's just as relieved when he leaves. Just as happy to not have to snipe at him, or be sniped at. As he goes, he wants more than anything to brush her hair off her face, like he hasn't done in a month of Sundays.  
  
He doesn't. Just grabs his raincoat again—hadn't even had a goddamn chance to get out of his scrubs—and walks out the door. To the nearest bar, where everyone knows his name and can guess his story.  
  
This is Sunday, and that's always the worst night of the week.  
  
 _Maybe tomorrow,_  he tells himself.  _It'll be Monday, and whatever's in our heads should go away._  
  
But, staring into four fingers of Laphroaig, he seriously doubts it.  
  
  


**Radiohead: There, There**

  
  
All he knows is, he's drunker'n any ten lords.  
  
He staggers out of the bar, having won neither friends, nor admirers with his sharp, inebriated tongue. Home means Jocelyn's  _look_ , and the sure, bitter knowledge that even if he were sober as a judge, she wouldn't let him touch her.  
  
Halfway to the taxi stand, he leans against a storefront and covers his face with his hands. He wants to cry, to scream, to whatever it takes to make himself the man she married. Or at least make the man he is less . . . disappointing to her.  
  
He wishes he was anyone but himself, because he'd still have a better chance of earning a simple smile from his wife, than he does now.  
  
A few hoarse pants that're too dry, too angry to be sobs, and McCoy is ready to go. Not home, but to the hospital. To sober up and pitch in.  
  
Thanks to his marriage going to hell, he's considered the most dedicated doctor for four counties.  
  
It's a shit consolation prize.  
  
  


**Marilyn Manson: This Is Halloween**

  
  
It's the creepy-weird young patient from earlier, and he's  _freaking the fuck out_  in the ER.  
  
Nurse Javitz had let the guy hang around, since he'd seemed . . . well, not harmless, with his flat, empty, skittering gaze and stringy-long hair . . . but not violent, either.  
  
Now, well, hospital security's dealing with him. He's a tallish man, about McCoy's height, but underfed. Long muscles cover good, solid bones, and he puts up a  _hell_  of a fight. It takes all of the security staff on duty to hold and subdue him, and he still manages to hold his own against the first three that try to grab him.  
  
He fights dirty, like something that spent all its life in the gutter afraid to look up, in case something took what little it had while it was stargazing.  
  
All during the fight, he's screaming about chosen girls and prophecies and all manner of silliness before he stops. Dead. Just stops, and lets himself be grabbed.  
  
His eyes, dark-pale and too old for his young, stubbled face, meet McCoy's.  
  
“Into every generation, a Slayer is born,” he says sadly, letting out a heavy sigh. “I'm sorry. It's supposed to be different, now. There're no demons, anymore. There  _weren't_. Now . . . she alone must fight them. Monsters. Vampires. Werewolves. I'm sorry, Leonard--”  
  
And thank God in Heaven, Laila Ortiz has the good sense to put him under. Her team drags the guy off to the psych-ward, a limp, sweaty, skinny bag of crazy.  
  
“Another loopy one, Dr. M,” Nurse Javitz says with a soft sigh. She's young, new to Atlanta, and lonely, and she tends to make calf-eyes at any halfway attractive young man comes through the ER. She reminds him of Joanna, for some reason, and he's never been able to be gruff with her.  
  
“Ain't they all, Freda?” he says, nudging her back toward his office. He can keep her busy with filing till she's forgotten about the nutcase.  
  
  


**Stone Temple Pilots: Dancing Days**

  
  
It's maybe the best idea  _ever_.  
  
He ain't a bit surprised he didn't think of it sooner, what with him having a tin ear for what women need, want, or will tolerate. Chip off the ol' McCoy block, he is. But it's Freda, darlin' Freda, who gives him the idea.  
  
He doesn't know if it's unsubtle advice, or just a young woman rattling on about what happened to pop into her head while updating his files—can't abide the hospital computers, but Freda's a whiz. A Godsend, really--but it's any port in a storm.  
  
And so's her parent's near divorce, though even McCoy knows enough not to tell her  _that_.  
  
After she's gone of on other business, he braves his computer and after fifty-six minutes of typing—he doesn't trust voice activation software, no, sir—he's spent money he can ill afford on a second honeymoon. To the actual Moon, which is where they went on their first honeymoon.  
  
Maybe there, away from Earth and everything that goes with it—yes, even their beloved Joanna—they'll be able to remember who they once were. Maybe they'll be able to recharge like old batteries.  
  
Maybe the people they are now will remember how to be in love.  
  
  


**Audioslave: Doesn't Remind Me**

  
  
“You look lost. And handsome.”  
  
In the patient's lounge onf the fifth floor, McCoy looks up from his PADD. Squints coolly into freaky eyes and silently hates the psych rotation.  
  
“Looks can be deceiving.”  
  
“Ah, the looks would like you to  _think_  that.” The guy smiles the benevolent, empty, meaningless smile of the well-medicated, and McCoy shoos him.  
  
“Got rounds to do, kid, and you ain't bleedin' or spazzin', so buzz off.”  
  
The patient—who's got no name anyone's been able to find out, and so they just call him Joe. Everyone except McCoy, who never thinks about him as anything other than 'that mental patient with the  _eyes_ '-- drifts closer to the window, but doesn't take his eyes of McCoy.  
  
“Wow. With a bedside manner like that, who needs enemas?” A daffy grin, and the he leans against unbreakable glass, looking out. “It's pretty admirable. What you guys are doing. It's pointless, really, in the greater scheme of things, but for what it's worth, I appreciate it.” He waves vague fingers at his head, before combing them back through matted hair. He tugs gently on the snags. “The calm. The sanity. The not Knowing. You know, I have  _no_  idea what you're thinking, right now, or what you'll be doing tomorrow afternoon.”  
  
“That makes two of us. G'night,” McCoy says briskly, striding away. But the patient's voice follows him:  
  
“Even the most complex dam is just a stop-gap, Leonard. Rivers  _will_  run their course. I'll be forced to See again, you'll be forced accept the truth of your heart, and  _she_  . . . will start her own path. Delay is worse than pointless. It's painful. I'm sorry.”  
  
It's only when he's reached the lobby landing that he realizes he's out of breath, having sprinted full out down eight flights of stairs, Jocelyn's face and the patient's voice dogging him all the way.  
  
  


**Alice In Chains: Check My Brain**

  
  
“So.”  
  
Jocelyn's eyebrows lift up, but she doesn't look at him. Focuses, instead, on her steak tar-tar. McCoy winces, but smiles anyway, and simply avoids her plate, and the dead animal bits she's currently masticating.  
  
“Jo-Jo's getting into fights at school, lately.”  
  
Jocelyn says this as if he hadn't taken an evening off to go with her to Joanna's school, and meet with Mr. Gresham. As if this problem hadn't already been put to bed.  
  
As if they weren't on their goddamn  _honeymoon_.  
  
“Darlin' . . . we already talked that to death, can't we just . . . leave it alone, for now? And just . . . _talk_?”  
  
Jocelyn meets his eyes warily, her own as light a brown as his are dark. She looks tired and haunted. Like someone who wishes she was  _anywhere_  in the universe but here, and it's in that moment, that he knows. That he hears that crazy, homeless bastard's voice in his brain.  
  
“Alright,” Jocelyn says brightly, and smiles at him, for the first time in maybe a year. But it doesn't reach her tired eyes, which are always a little red, like she's been crying. How has he, a doctor, not noticed that she  _always_  looks like this, now? That there are circles under her eyes, and she's lost weight? Become brittle, and all edges to cut himself on. “What did you want to talk about, Leonard?”  
  
She's trying. Out of duty. Maybe out of some dregs of fondness for him.  
  
He looks around them, at the other diners, some of them aliens. At the amazing view around them, of Earth and the solar system. At the lovely blonde stranger sitting across from him, with tired, crying eyes that've forgotten how to smile anymore.  
  
“Nothing.” He lowers his eyes to his plate and doesn't raise them all that silent evening.  
  
  


**Radiohead: Creep**

  
  
Not his first night back, but his third, he manages to switch rotations with Denny Chu, and prowls through the psych ward. Completes his rounds in record time, barely paying attention to anything that wasn't shaping up to be a full psychotic break.  
  
He saves the patient, Joe, for last, and finds him not in his room, asleep—he  _doesn't_  sleep according to the nurses and orderlies, simply wanders around staring at things as if he's never seen their like before—but in the small patient lounge, staring raptly at the holo.  
  
It's not even turned on.  
  
“Doesn't have to be. I make my own shows,” he says, blinking slowly, then looking up at McCoy. Someone's evened out his hair in the time McCoy's been absent. Now, he simply looks like a shaggy-haired young . . . lunatic. And when he smiles, his eyes are kinda creepier. Both more present and less, all at the same time.  
  
The patient tilts his head as if listening, and liking what he hears.  
  
"The meds aren't blocking the transmissions, anymore. This little tower's begun to receive signal again. Patchy, but yeah. Oh, and I  _do_  like what I'm hearing. Your mind is like a big, heavy wool blanket. Kinda scratchy, but kinda wonderful, too. Warm. I kinda wanna hump your brain so bad, it makes my teeth ache.”  
  
“I-- _no_ \--I'm leaving!” It's a mental picture McCoy doesn't want to deal with. And that's  _not_  why he came here, anyway. But fuck why he came here--it's crazy, anyway. Like this damn patient.  
  
“You came here to ask me how you should leave your wife,” the patient says, his smile slipping, slipping, gone. He sighs again. “I can tell you how you  _will_  leave her, and that it's not . . . pretty. But I can't tell you the  _right_  way to leave her. Or if there  _is_  a right way. Only that you  _must_  leave her. Soon, or . . . it'll all go wrong.”  
  
McCoy lets out a breath he's been holding for a week, and stumbles to the couch the patient's sitting on. Sits, and doesn't shrug off the arm that goes around his shoulder. Wonders what in God's name he does now, if even this . . . nutso precog can't help him.  
  
“I can tell you  _this_ ,” the patient whispers, hot and fervent in McCoy's ear. “If you ever,  _ever_  have a chance to, oh, help a friend stow away on a ship of the Fleet . . .  _do eet_ , Dr. McCoy.”  
  
This cryptic announcement is followed by a crazy little giggle and a kiss on the neck. Though it's actually more of a lick.  
  
  


**Duran Duran: Ordinary World**

  
  
A few weeks later, the patient-- _Joe_ \--escapes, somehow.  
  
He's been so docile and friendly, everyone, even security's forgotten the nutcase who took down three of their guys before being subdued.  
  
McCoy hasn't had much of a chance to speak with him in the intervening weeks. Between trying to mend fences with his wife, and trying not to kill either himself or her in the endeavor, he's too tired to hold a conversation with someone who's sane, let alone the madman who's tried more than once to lick him, and still mentions wanting to do 'dirty things' to McCoy's brain.  
  
And his creepy-weird eyes're crazier than ever.  
  
The morning after Joe escapes, McCoy gets home from an overnight shift—one of the first in over a month. Another thing he's been trying to do is be home when Jocelyn is. It hasn't been working out well. All they do is have stilted conversations and avoid each other. Slowly, but surely, McCoy's taking up his old workaholic ways.  
  
He and Jocelyn don't even share time with Joanna, anymore, and she's started fighting at school again. Perversely, McCoy takes pride in the fact that in this, as in everything, his baby's a  _McCoy_. She doesn't just fight, she  _wins_.  
  
As he punches in the code for their apartment door, he thinks that maybe that's part of the problem. His willingness not to fight  _with_  Jocelyn, but fight  _for_  her. To win her.  
  
Maybe . . . maybe it's time to let go, like Lunatic Joe said. Like McCoy's own heart's been saying, in all honesty, for going on a year.  
  
Though maybe they should try marriage-counseling. Sure, McCoy doesn't put much stock in it, but--  
  
One step in the door, he's grabbed by the lapels of his raincoat and kissed like he hasn't been in two years. It's hard and desperate, wet and hungry, and everything McCoy's been missing. He doesn't even mind the stubble-burn he gets, slides his arms around a rangy, buzzing body, and lets himself be slammed against the door and ground on, till they're both panting. And  _hard._  
  
“That ain't m' brain,” he rumbles, and Lunatic Joe's creepy-weird eyes smile at him. See into him and for a wonder, don't find him wanting. The only eyes not to, besides Joanna's.  
  
“Yeah, I know.” Lunatic Joe giggles, hyena-high and disquieting, then kisses McCoy again, before he has a chance to think better of any of this.  
  
  


**Dirty Little Rabbits: Hello**

  
  
Leonard McCoy finds himself in an extremely new, extremely exciting position:  
  
He is bent over the right arm of the living room couch, fingers scrambling for purchase in cushions as a patient—a  _mental_  patient-- fucks him like fucking is going out of style.  
  
Sure, like everyone, McCoy's experimented with his own gender, but he's never done  _this_. Never had . . .  _God_. . . .  
  
“I know . . . good, isn't it?” Lunatic Joe pants cheerily, without ego, not once slowing the pistoning of his narrow hips, his cock hitting McCoy's prostate like a sledgehammer, every blow a devastation, a destruction of something McCoy can't define and doubts he'll miss. “Been a . . . long time since . . . I've done it, though. . . .”  
  
“I. Wouldn't. Have. Known.” McCoy grits out on every thrust, watching pretty colors explode behind his eyes, shuddering every time his cock comes in contact with the damask of the couch. The rough, strong hands on his hips grip him tighter, then one shifts to his cock and begins stroking in time and holy, sweet  _fuck_  it's perfect. Whatever else this man is, he's talented lover.  
  
“You think . . . the sweetest . . . thoughts. Honored to . . . pop your . . . cherry. . . .” Lunatic Joe pants and laughs.  
  
“Stop yammerin'. An' fuck me.  _Harder_!”  
  
“Yes, sir . . . doctor, sir!”  
  
And that's all, but for the slap of skin, and a variety of grunts. The obscene and wet sound of Lunatic Joe's cock sliding in and out of him, aided by plenty of lube. Then the groans that used to be grunts, turned breathless, desperate, and embarrassing . . . and thrilling, to be letting himself go this way, even though it's with a stranger.  
  
Maybe even  _because_. . . .  
  
“Yeah . . . this's what . . . you've been needing . . . all along . . . isn't it, baby?”  
  
“Oh, God, yes.”  
  
“Want more?”  
  
“ _Plea_ \--”  
  
Then McCoy hears a gasp that's definitely  _not_  lunatic's and opens his eyes just in time to see the back of a blond head before the front door shuts and locks.  
  
Stunned, all he can do is perch on the couch and let himself be fucked. Long, slow, almost tender thrusts, now, and one of those rough hands on his cock, and McCoy's . . . he's. . . .  
  
. . . coming, and it hurts, and it feels incredible, and it's the end of life as he's known it.  
  
It's a relief. One that leaves him gasping and limp on the couch while Lunatic Joe rocks into him slowly, steadily, till he stills, and comes with a a few last, hard-- _hard_ \--thrusts and a wistful sigh, then slumps over McCoy's back.  
  
"You're very welcome," he murmurs, kissing the nape of McCoy's sweaty neck, lingering with teeth and tongue. "And you're a good man, despite what you think."  
  
"Shut up, and get gone. Make it for keeps, this time," McCoy growls weakly, and doesn't realize there are tears in his eyes till Lunatic Joe pulls out carefully, slowly, and the tears fall, anyway.  
  
Keep falling long after Lunatic Joe is gone--for keeps, this time.


End file.
